Gorzath adamantly refused to meet anyone's eyes as they left the island. He had received a few wounds, nothing worthy of major healing, from the battle with the necromancer. Undead can actually damage you if you're not paying attention, as it turns out. Though they had defeated the Necromancer, and scattered his followers, and it had been a reasonably good fight, he had come close to giving into the Necromancer's demands. Not that anyone would know that, and if Gorzath had his way, no one would ever know that, but [i]he[/i] knew it. He, the Hero of Tamriel, had come a breath away from selling the lives of innocents and deceiving a king for a piece of information that was probably a lie anyways. He had nearly done that and it was..sickening. That was something the Dwemer would have done. And, what good was fighting them if you were going to be no better than them when they were vanquished. Luckily, he could pass off his silence as sea sickness once more as they were put back on the boat once more. He had preferred it when they were tramping across the countryside to this Oblivion damned mode of travel. Gorzath fervently hoped whoever thought it'd be a good idea to cross bodies of water in boats was suffering..somewhere, somehow.

As they reunited with the Goblin Group, Gorzath learned that Vurwe, the young Altmer he was supposed to be protecting, had died. Orcs don't cry. Generally, they present an image to the world of toughness that stays with them till the day they die. Gorzath himself had only seen one of his kind cry and that was Cub. Two of a kind, weren't they? Neither presented the hostile, tough image the rest of their kind did. Yet both of them had managed to become 'Heroes of Tamriel'. Still, Gorzath only gave a bitter smile before retreating to his room in the inn. There, in his self-disgust at how close he had come to callously throwing away lives and the knowledge of his failure, did he let the tears flow. It wasn't loud, just shaking hands and tears. Orcs don't cry. Heroes don't fail. Well..he was the different in one, why not the other? Once he was done, he began calmly, emptily, to take care of his gear. It was a gesture of habit, not of choice. He had failed. Nearly twice. It wouldn't happen again, even if it killed him. 

They left two days later on [i]another damned boat.[/i] Hopefully for the last time as they touched down onto the mainland. After having left a trail of the contents of his stomach in the sea, Gorzath only reluctantly traded in his trusty gear for that given to him. Stealth wasn't his..strong point, to put it lightly. Still, he took the gear and placed his own away. It was sensible, if not entirely comfortable with him. If the Dwemer decided that they looked a bit to..unnatural, there was nothing they could do to stop them from murdering them in a variety of painful and slow ways that Gorzath had no doubt they knew. Rather than brood with his thoughts of how the next day could go horrible wrong in so many ways, Gorzath wandered the camp. He got...mixed reactions to say the least. Some gave him friendly nods, others neutral. Mostly, however, the rumors of his necromancy had reached the camp and he got hate and disgust wherever he went. [i]Not that,[/i] Gorzath thought, thinking back to the island,[i]I don't deserve it.[/i]

After a while, he stumbled across the smithy. It was a reassuring sight, reaffirming the solidity of his beliefs, and bringing back memories of working the Forge with his father. There was something relaxing about working a forge, bending metal to your will. Having nothing better to do, he might as well make something useful he could hide easily. A task easier said than done. As he set about to begin working, he thought he heard a distant voice screaming Zaveed's name. Another adoring fan? Or someone angry at him for not saving the city from impossible odds? Giving a slightly bitter chuckle, Gorzath lost himself in the work.